Greeting another year
Softening a melancholy holiday with slow rituals
When this year began, I was still keeping my world very small, seeing few others and waiting impatiently for my turn to get a COVID vaccine. The biggest event of my week was a long hike with my husband. We ventured out in all kinds of weather in January, February and March, bundled up against the below freezing temps.
Our weekly hikes offered us room to evaluate where we were and where we wanted to go. When spring came, things started moving quickly. Looking back, I’m startled at just how quickly we moved, literally and metaphorically.
After getting vaccinated in April, my year included:
Reuniting with long-distance family and friends
Passing the one-year anniversary of my mom’s death
Deciding to relocate closer to family
Negotiating permanent remote work status at my job
Getting pregnant
Saying goodbye to our sweet, senior dog
Actually moving (whilst pregnant)
Trying to figure out how to settle in a new city during a pandemic
I’m not sure why I thought it was reasonable to tackle so many life changes at once. Other than losing our dog, these are life changes my husband and I agreed upon and actively pursued. Each decision cascaded into the next like dominos, clear and right. My life had already been turned upside down by huge events out of my control, so leaning into the change and making bold decisions in 2021 made sense to me.
Now much of that clarity has trickled away like water I’ve tried to keep cupped in my hands. In my better moments, I trust myself and the process of change. But in my low moments, I wrestle with a lot of self-doubt. It’s why I’ve been unable to write for months. Every time I sit down, all that comes out is a stream of worries better fit to share with my therapist than to publish here. I started the year feeling fatigued but cautiously hopeful. I’m ending it feeling stretched to my limits physically and emotionally. However, after a holiday season marked by yet another COVID variant, I wonder if some of you are feeling a similar weight?
If you are, well, you’re not alone. I’m not one for New Year’s resolutions, particularly lately. (I think I’ve put enough on my plate for 2022 as it is.) Even pre-pandemic, I found New Year’s Eve a slightly melancholy, anti-climactic holiday. Last night I streamed the midnight fireworks in London (five hours ahead of us), sipped some sparkling grape juice and went to bed early. And that was just fine with me.
I have, however, stumbled into some New Year’s Day rituals over recent years. I like New Year’s Day much better now because of them — they help me roll off melancholy thoughts about the passage of time and savor the first day of the new year.
First, I let myself go slow. I spend a good chunk of the day puttering in the kitchen. I don’t always cook the same thing, but I always plan to make something comforting. This year, it will be a turkey shepherd’s pie from Julia Turshen’s latest cookbook. Plus a few loaves of sourdough bread, of course.
Second, I take a leisurely walk. The weather where I am is currently a soupy, cloudy 70 degrees — a consequence moving back to the South, I suppose — and I’m surprised how much I miss a brisk, snowy January. But no matter the weather, it’s worth greeting the New Year with a bit of fresh air. (Walking is theme around here, if you can’t tell.)
Lastly, I revisit this interview with John O’Donohue every New Year’s Day. I started the habit three or four years ago because listening to O’Donohue expound (in his soothing Irish lilt) on beauty, creativity, and the mystery of being alive seemed like right tone to start the year. And year after year, I can’t help returning to it. When I’m feeling a little rough around the edges, O’Donohue softens them. And it ends with the loveliest poem, an appropriate blessing for 2022.
Beannacht / Blessing
John O'Donohue
On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.
And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets into you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green
and azure blue,
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.
When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.
May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.